


Serves You Right

by notyourparadigm



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, For the most part, Gen, Not Shippy, but could be if you squint?, it is about their relationship so you'll prob like it if you ship them too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/pseuds/notyourparadigm
Summary: Altaïr completed his mission, but not without suffering heavy injuries on his return to the Jerusalem bureau. Malik is obliged to tend to the wounds, although he does not mean he has to be nice about it.In the process, Malik finds his loyalties tested, as Altaïr might be a member of the Brotherhood, but is also traitor to the Brotherhood, dictated by Al-Mualim himself. How much is the life of Altaïr worth, the man responsible for his brother's death, his amputation, and the lives of so many other brothers? Where does his obligation to protecting him end?





	1. The Doctor is In

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately after the events of Doubleleaf's Comic "Serves You Right" (https://www.deviantart.com/doubleleaf/art/Serves-You-Right-Page-1-of-9-311419284) which is based on Peachy-feet's story of the same name (https://peachy-feet.deviantart.com/art/Serves-you-Right-313450784)
> 
> There's some fan content inception for you.

It had felt like half an eternity had passed since Malik had climbed back down the ladder, but still there was no sign of him.

Altaïr still lay crumpled on the ground, hand tight on his side, slick with the blood he was trying to keep inside his body – although not to any great success, as the pool of blood around him was growing with each passing minute. He tod himself it was just the Templar’s blood; he could see the corpse discarded by Malik out of the corner of his eye, the hole Malik’s blade made in his neck still slowly bleeding out. They were two of a kind, he and the corpse, useless and bleeding out on the roof of the bureau. How long would it be before he was dead too? What was taking Malik so long?

Altaïr’s patience grew thinner as the sharp pain in his side continued to stab at him, as if the sword was still lodged in the wound. He could not wait any longer, even if it hurt more to move than to remain lying in his blood. He propped himself up onto his hands and knees, taking a few crawling steps to the rooftop lattice that overlooked the bureau’s courtyard. The lattice had been re-opened again, and he could see the flicker of light and movement from within the office.

“What… the _hell_ … are you doing…” he managed to say, voice straining with impatience and discomfort.

“Waiting for you,” came Malik’s voice, cold and dismissive as ever. “The door is open, come on now. I have other things to do today.”

Altaïr didn’t understand at first, head growing dizzy. “You… I… _what?_ I can’t jump down there like this.”

“You climbed up there just fine. Besides, you don’t have to jump. You can fall if that is all you can manage.”

Altaïr was not in the mood for jokes. “Just get up here already.”

“I am not treating you on the rooftop. We would be completely vulnerable to an attack if someone were to see us.”

“Nobody is coming, just fucking get _up_ here.”

“I am not as reckless as you, novice. I am not going to carry you down here either. So jump, or leave and see if you can find someone else in Jerusalem who will treat you without handing you over to the guards…”

“ _Malik!_ ”

“If you have the energy to complain, you must have energy enough to jump.” Malik’s voice trailed off as he walked away, deeper into the bureau. Altaïr could think of several names he wanted to call out at him, but in truth shouting was painful too, stretching at whatever muscles were splitting in pain at his side. Instead, he sufficed for swearing under his breath as he pulled himself to his feet, crouching over the lattice.

There was little he could do aside for aim for the pillows strewn about the ground. Still clutching tightly onto his side, he used what little energy he had left to throw himself into the bureau. His legs took the brunt of the hock of the fall, although thankfully it did not feel like anything broke in the process. He only had the strength to let out a pained gasp upon impact. Even as he fell onto the cushions he panted heavily, heart still racing, but the initial pain from impact thankfully subsided into just a dull throb.

“Please don’t bleed on my cushions. Other people have to use those too, you know.” Malik shook his head in disapproval as he stood over Altaïr. He outstretched his arm. “Up. The things I need are inside.”

No energy to protest, Altaïr grabbed Malik’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled up onto his feet again, leaning on Malik’s shoulder as they walked inside the bureau. Malik had cleared space for him to lie down in the centre of the room, and a brazier sat burning next to several supplies – bandages, knife, alcohol, a hand saw, bowl of water – that sat upon clean linen on the ground. The heat from the brazier was too hot for Altaïr; he could feel himself beginning to sweat as Malik let him down, head dropping to the ground with an unceremonious _thud_.

Malik started with the knife, tearing open Altaïr’s robes from stomach to chin, peeling away the bloody fabric, cutting more around the arms to completely remove the robes. He made no reaction to the gaping wound below Altaïr’s left ribs, the most serious of the injuries. Instead he took some of the discarded fabric and soaked it in the water. Altaïr watched with apprehension as Malik wrung the fabric out, knowing the cold sting that was about to come. He inhaled sharply as the cloth pressed to the opened flesh. Malik was not harsh in his actions, working away the blood from the skin with gentle dabs, rinsing the fabric once it become too damp with blood. He worked upwards from his stomach, but upon touching Altaïr’s right ribs he was rewarded with a violent flinch, causing him to knock over the bowl and spill bloodied water across the ground. Malik sighed with impatience.

“If you cannot stay still I will not help you. I have no way to restrain you,” he tossed a large wad of torn robes atop the spill, ripping a fresh piece from Altaïr’s sleeve. “You seem to have a broken rib. You should avoid climbing or jumping until it heals.”

Altaïr seethed through his gritted teeth. “ _You_ made me—”

“Save your breath. You are going to need it,” said Malik. “I will have to sew this wound shut. How did you let your enemy strike you like this? You must have left yourself wide open, attacking without thought.”

“There were—”

“What did I just say?” Malik was unwinding the hemp from its spool with some difficulty, repeatedly dropping the spool and thread in the process. He swore when he dropped it the fourth time. “…damn needle came off. Here, thread it again.”

Altaïr blinked, staring dumbly at the needle and thread Malik placed in his gaping hand. “What?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed I can’t thread it myself. Now do it unless you want to see if you will stop bleeding on your own.”

“You aren’t serious…”

“Do you think I would ask for your help if it were not necessary?” Malik scoffed, standing up to examine the brazier, poking at the burning wood with the metal bar he had left inside.

Altaïr’s attempts at re-threading the thin hemp twine into the eyelet of the needle were nothing but hasty jamming and thrusting and meddling as he craned his neck upwards to try to see what he was doing. By some miracle the thread pulled through eventually. “Here,” he held the needle up to show his work, letting his head drop back to the ground.

“Good.” Malik kneeled back to the ground. He had a cold piece of firewood in his hand, which he set on Altaïr’s face before taking the needle. “Bite down on this if you must scream. I do not want the whole city to hear you.”

Altaïr removed the wood with a scowl, gripping it tight as Malik punctured skin with the first suture. This was not his first time getting stitched closed, so he was ready and braced for the sharp pricks. While he did not scream, he still could not help but grunt and twitch with each needle puncture. Malik’s pace was not helping either, as with only one hand he struggled much more with aligning each suture, and took twice as long to pull the hemp taught with each pass. His brows furrowed with focus as he worked, struggling to find his place with Altaïr’s involuntary wincing, resulting in jagged and uneven stitches. When finally finished, the wound looked messier than ever, although the bleeding was effectively stopped. He cut the excess thread with his teeth, not bothering to trim the loose end of hemp.

“You have a wound on your shoulder too, yes?” Malik asked, setting the needle aside to join the soiled robes and over-heaved bowl.

“Other side—”

“Yes, yes, I see it.” Malik waved away the explanation. “Too small to bother with sutures. I’ll just cauterize it to stop the bleeding.”

A part of Altaïr wanted to tell Malik to just leave the wound be and avoid the burning, but he knew first hand that a festered wound would be far more painful and dangerous in the long run. Still, his skin crawled as Malik removed the cautery rod from the brazier, metal still glowing a soft orange from where it sat in the heart of the fire.

“Wood in mouth, Altaïr. That’s an order.”

It was a good idea, but that didn’t make Altaïr resent it any less as he tasted the wood on his tongue, the smell of smoke filling his nostrils. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow as he watched Malik draw close.

“…ah wait, I should clean the wound first.”

Malik stepped back, returning the rod back into the flames. Altaïr gave an exasperated sigh as he spat out the wood.

“Would you rather do it yourself, then? I have better things to do than playing doctor for you.”

Altaïr did not reply as Malik took his leave from the room, taking the ceramic bowl with him. He was left to ponder the feeling of the fresh sutures expanding and stretching with each breath. Already the hemp was beginning to irritate the wound, as a strong desire to scratch and pick away at the injury crawled at his fingertips. Instead, he busied himself by unfastening his wrist bracers, tired of them pinching at his exposed arms. His fingers felt dumb, fumbling with the leather straps and metal buckles like a drunk trying to get undressed. He blinked several times, frustrated. How had he managed to thread the needle at all, when now he might as well have had all his fingers chopped off?

He had only managed to get his right bracer off when Malik returned with the filled bowl. He expected some witty remark or quip from Malik at the sight of him struggling with the simple task, but Malik remained silent as he kneeled back down. He even helped Altaïr remove his hidden blade without prompt, although he did extend the blade to examine its surface, noting the blood that had collected at the bottom junction. “Your target’s, I hope.”

Nodding, Altaïr reached for the sash still tied about his waist, pulling out the feather he had drawn across his target’s opened neck, although now it seemed like a memory from a lifetime ago.

“At least you managed to do that.” For a moment, Altaïr thought he saw Malik crack a smile. “Although, it seems as though you have once again forgotten the meaning of _discretion_.”

In truth, the assassination had been without problem—it was returning to the bureau that had proven the real challenge, once the entire guard was on alert for him. Altaïr did not feel like explaining as much to Malik, instead appreciating the refreshing coolness of the damp cloth on his feverish skin. It was almost a massage now, the gentle circular motions across his chest and shoulders. Even the sting of the pressure on the knife wound seemed sweeter when he focused instead on how his muscles loosed at Malik’s contact.

He hadn’t realized his eyes had fallen shut until the piece of wood was abruptly reinserted into his mouth, waking him from his daze with a start. Malik took the cautery from the fire once more, a focused glare staring down at Altaïr. “Brace yourself.”

Malik gave him little time to do so, pressing the flaring metal to Altaïr’s shoulder before he could properly fear the act. The burn seared his flesh in a more incredible pain than the knife ever had, and the hot, flaring ache continued even after Malik pulled the rod away. Altaïr could not remember if he screamed as much as his skin did, but his teeth were clenched tightly on the wood as he attempted to relax from the ordeal. His chest was heaving, leaving him breathless even as he freed his mouth from his gag.

“Here,” Malik returned to Altaïr’s side once he discarded the rod, dipping his fingers into a small wooden box. “This will help soothe the burn.”

He spread the creamy substance from the box onto the wound. The pressure only made the burn spike again in pain, but Altaïr could feel the deep chill that seemed to seep from the liquid. It had a strong odor to it as well, not unlike some of the perfumes he sometimes was assaulted by in the rich districts of the city, but it was not wholly unpleasant either, especially when it masked the scent of his own burning flesh.

“That is all of your mistakes then, yes? No injured limbs I could part from you, hm? Pity,” Malik shook his head. “It seems you are treated then. Now go report news of your success to Al-Mualim.”

Every muscle in Altaïr’s body gave a different command. “I… I need a rest first.”

“You can rest in Masyaf. I want you out of my bureau.” Malik had his back to Altaïr and began to pick up the used medical equipment.

Altaïr grunted in effort as he tried to aright himself, but a shockwave of pain sent him back to the ground quickly, hand snapping to his side. “Ngh, my ribs… you said yourself—”

“They may only be bruised, I am no expert. Perhaps you are just too weak to deal with a little discomfort?” Malik stood up, arm full of supplies. “You had better be gone when I get back.”

He disappeared into the room behind the counter, and then the world went still—the only sounds in the bureau was the faint clatter of wood chimes from the courtyard. Altaïr’s shoulder flared, and his stomach seemed one large knot of pain, irritation, and queasiness.

“Dammit…” he mumbled, closing his eyes for just a minute.


	2. Cut From a Different Cloth

Altaïr stirred from his dreamless sleep to the harsh impact of feet on stone, and the grunts of discomfort from a foreign voice. Without a thought, Altaïr felt the ground aimlessly for a weapon, realizing in horror he was completely unarmed.

“Safety and peace, Malik.”

“Safety and peace.”

That’s right. He was still in the bureau. It was just another assassin coming to discuss a target. Altaïr relaxed as he remembered, allowing his eyes to fall shut again. He had no desire to make idle chatter with whoever had entered, and in truth his body still enjoyed the idea of a little more sleep before he left.

“What news of your target?” Malik sounded court as ever. Perhaps he had turned prickly to all the world, and not just Altaïr.

“Who is that?”

“That is not an answer to my question.”

Altaïr heard the man’s footsteps draw closer. “That’s him. It’s Altaïr. So it’s true, he was stripped of his rank…”

“If you came to Jerusalem to gossip you would be wise to look elsewhere. Is the priest dead?”

“I could not find him anywhere in the city. I think he has left already.”

Altaïr wanted to sleep, but in truth he found it refreshing to hear someone else besides himself get chided.

“You  _ think _ ,” Malik paused, clearly expecting a reply. He received none. “Did your sources not say that he would be delivering a sermon tomorrow?”

Altaïr could feel the man’s eyes on him, hear him take another step towards him. “That is what I heard. I wonder if he did not make a change of plans out of fear.”

“Fear of what? Not you, of course. He does not know you are here.” Malik’s voice was venom. “Not unless you made yourself known.”

The assassin did not reply immediately, choosing his words carefully. “The priest has not seen me. If he suspects something, it is only because of his men’s whispers—”

“And who is this who might be whispering?”

“The man’s tongue loosened so freely, he told me everything I needed to know, I did not expect him to cry for the guards—”

“—you let him live?!”

Altaïr should have been upset at such a failure, but he could not help but smirk.  _ What a novice. _

“I-it is only speculation. The priest might still be in the city.”

“Or he might be boarding a ship to cross the Mediterranean Sea by now.”

“Then he is of no trouble to us anymore.”

If not for his desire to remain undetected, Altaïr would have rolled over to try to steal a glimpse at Malik’s expression. Whoever the assassin was, he was most certainly outranked by Malik and had no right to speak to him in such a way.

“Mind your tongue, novice, or I will cut it from your throat. You would be wise to leave this bureau and not return until your feather carries your mark’s blood.”

“Your idle threats do not scare me, Al-Sayf. Your words are the only weapon you have left to cut people. You let the man who lost you your brother and your arm sleep in your bureau, when he should have your blade buried in his back.”

The thought of Malik wanting him dead had crossed his mind before, but Altaïr never considered it a real possibility. He was still a part of the Brotherhood, and Malik held the tenets above all else. In truth, Altaïr never thought of Malik as the vengeful type—he was cold and bitter, not one to be possessed by such fiery emotions as anger or rage.

But when Malik next spoke, Altaïr heard nothing but fury in his words.

“You openly admit to such treacherous thoughts? That is warrant for punishment most severe.”

The assassin scoffed. “I fear punishment even less than I fear you. Altaïr should be dead for what he did. But look at him now – he barely got a slap on the wrist, still permitted to carry such weapons—”

“You question the decision of Al-Mualim?”

“Everyone knows he only spared his life out of favouritism. He thinks Altaïr better than the rest of us. He is the reason Altaïr has grown so arrogant. He has no right to think himself better than us.”

“Altaïr is victim to his own hubris. You, on the other hand, lack any proficiency with which you  _ could _ be arrogant.”

For a moment there was silence. Altaïr could hear the sounds of a quill scratching on parchment. It was the novice who finally spoke again, although this time he hushed his voice, perhaps aware that Altaïr could have been awake and listening.

“I see the anger in your eyes, brother. You cannot hide it forever, trying to settle for harsh words or insults. I know you want physical revenge, payment for what was taken from you. Now is your change.”

“Do not speak as if—”

“—as if I know what you are thinking? You make it too easy to see, Malik. You who lives by the tenets like doctrine, you who knows killing should never be done out of spite or fury. Yet you find yourself desiring nothing more. You could remove a remove a corrupt brother, one protected by Al-Mualim’s bias. You could make peace with your brother, assure that no others will fall victim to Altaïr’s reckless behaviour again. It would be effortless to hide… he would not be the first assassin to die from his wounds. After all, there is only so much you can do to stop the bleeding, especially in the chest…”

Altaïr’s eyes scanned the floor time and time again, but there was no trace of any of his weapons, not even a lone throwing knife. Malik must have set them aside when he tidied up the bloody mess that the first aid session had made. If he only had his former rank, he would have some knives still at his ankle to defend himself if… if his brothers attacked him? They would not dare. The idea was too ludicrous to even entertain. To kill a brother openly would set all Masyaf against you…. But this was not Masyaf, and they were not in the open. And of course, what rules were not subject to breaking, when the creed itself seemed to urge them to forsake them, that everything was permitted.

Why was Malik not saying anything?

Altaïr never realized how truly terrifying silence could be. He strained to hear anything—the scuffle of a foot, the rustle of a robe. He heard only wood chimes and the din of the city outside. Had the two disappeared without him hearing? Was his panic dulling his senses? Had he already been killed, and his senses frozen in time with his last moments?

At last, Malik gave a heavy sigh. “You are right. I never thought I would have to kill a brother, but your words… they have convinced me.”

Altaïr could recognize the sound of metal being unsheathed in his sleep. His injuries cried out in pain as he flung himself onto his feet, arms at the ready to disarm the blade that would be coming for him.

Malik’s blade needed only one strike to do the job. It slid up between the left ribs like it was a second sheath, not even giving the novice time to let out a scream of pain, let alone draw his own weapon. Instead, his mouth fell open vacantly, throat choking and sputtering on his last breath. He had a confused look in his eyes, asking Malik the question he would never get to voice, but they glazed over with his body’s death rattle, falling down to look at the floor as his neck muscles loosened permanently. The rest of his body collapsed in suit, slumping forward onto Malik’s shoulder.

He did not remove his sword from the assassin’s body until he had lowered him to the floor, kneeling beside the corpse. He looked at the blade curiously, as if surprised to find it lined with blood, dripping down and pooling on the bureau floor.

“Were you just going to lie there until one of us attacked you?” Malik did not look back to Altaïr, still focused on his bloodied sword.

“You… you killed him.”

Malik dropped his sword to the ground with a mild clatter. “Yes, I did.” He traced his fingers along the novice’s face, closing his eyelids.

“He was a brother.” Altaïr’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. Something was making it difficult to remain focused. Fear? Adrenaline? He blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to concentrate. “You killed a brother.”

“One who was planning on killing you. You heard him. He was a traitor.”

“For all you know that was just talk. He is not the first to wish death upon me.” In fact, since his humiliation, it seemed many of his brothers whispered about how he deserved death for his treachery. “He did not deserve to die!”

“You are one to speak of unnecessary deaths.”

Altaïr bristled. “I have never killed a brother.”

“You have killed traitors before.”

“Only when asked of me, after they were judged so.” Why was  _ he  _ having to defend himself, now?

“My apologies then,” Malik stood up and feigned a half bow. “Would you rather I had waited until he had taken out his blade? Or should I have waited until he actually stabbed you, just to be certain?”

Altaïr’s head was swimming. His stomach flared up in pain again—he needed to sit down, lie down, not argue ethics with Malik. Had he saved his life, or just killed a brother who was too vocal in his thoughts? The corpse did not yield any answers, only adding a new pool of blood to the Jerusalem bureau’s floor. His jaw was still agape, trying to say something. What would he have said to Malik? Begged forgiveness? Lashed out in anger? Explained he never truly intended to harm a brother? A dying man had no reason to keep secrets, and often Altaïr found the men he killed confessing to him their goals and sins, as if he was to pass judgement on them and grant them paradise if he forgave their transgressions. Had Malik been able to understand the final message of their brother?

A pang of guilt echoed after the next wave of pain through his shoulder and stomach, finally forcing him to take a knee. He had to resist the urge to crumple over entirely—his stitches felt like barbs in his skin, poking and scratching and grating the wounded flesh. He had half a mind to rip them out and just deal with the blood loss.

“Do not dare pass out on me again, Altaïr. If I had both of my arms I would have thrown you out of the bureau myself while you enjoyed your little nap.”

More sleep sounded like a great idea. The world made more sense when he was asleep, and was less painful. It felt like every inch of his body was either aching or sweltering from the heat. Did Malik still have the brazier aflame somewhere?

“Altaïr?”

Yes. That was his name. He nodded to confirm.

“Altaïr!” Malik was at his side now, shaking him by the shoulder. “I am not going to have two brothers die by my hand. Stay  _ awake _ , damn you.”

Altaïr pushed Malik away. “I have been injured worse. I will not die from this.”. 

“Arrogance like that is exactly why you could die from this. We have better healers in Masyaf. Go there now.”

Altaïr almost chuckled. “So now you want me gone for my own sake, is that it?”

An icy feeling clutched at his chest when he finally saw what the novice had remarked on—the look of utter rage that seemed to flicker in Malik’s irises. What a terrifying last sight it must have been, knowing the anger of your killer was nearly tangible in strength. Malik truly did despise him.

“I am alive now only because of the healers at Masyaf. They knew how to stop the death in my arm from reaching the rest of me.  _ You  _ are alive because Kadar stopped the death from reaching you. I wish it had taken you instead, but the world does not care what I want.”

“Why let me live then? I am a traitor as much as he,” Altaïr gestured to the corpse on the floor, “and you seem to have no hesitation in passing judgement yourself.”

“Killing you would be to forsake my brother’s sacrifice. Your life was his last gift to this world. An awful one at that. But you are not allowed to die until you fulfil your debt to this world. To the Brotherhood. Even if that means stitching you back together a thousand times, I will see you repay the debt you owe to my brother.”

Altaïr had no words. It felt as though new wounds were opening, deep inside his chest, beyond where stitches could reach.

“Ah of course,” Malik nodded at the corpse as well. “His life is a part of your debt too, now. That makes two lifetimes you owe us then. I think you had best head back to Masyaf now and start your next task.”

Despite every desire to sit down again, Altaïr resisted the urge, fearing he would not be able to stand up again if he did. Malik disappeared into the bureau’s back rooms, leaving Altaïr to consider the corpse again. How was Malik going to rid of it? By all rights, the assassin should be given the same burial as any of their brothers, but to do so would draw attention and questions regarding his death. Would he simply dump the body onto the streets to let the city guards deal with it? Could that Malik even be able to do so; with only one arm he would struggle to move the body anywhere.

“Here,” Malik returned with a pile of fabric folded in hand. “I suggest you wear this, unless you’d like to ride back half-naked.”

Altaïr let the robes unfold from his grasp as he took them, frowning. “These are novice robes.”

“They suit you perfectly, then.”

In any other situation Altaïr would have refuted the implication, but he had suffered enough conflict as it was and knew it would achieve nothing. In truth, he was lucky Malik had any sort of Assassin garb available. Normally the bureaus held only small sorts of supplies for its visitors—extra throwing knives, water skins— but nothing substantial. It was up to them to find their own food, and if a blade was lost or broken, they would have to return all the way to Masyaf to get another like it. Malik must have brought the spare robes with him as a part of his personal supplies. But why would Malik have unused novice robes? Surely he had not kept the robes he had worn as a novice himself.

A courier pigeon flew into the bureau through the open lattice, breaking Altaïr’s focus for a moment to follow the flapping wings settle as it landed back at its home. But even as he turned in curiosity, wondering what message the bird bore, he noticed Malik had not immediately done the same. His gaze lingered on the robes.

Then Altaïr understood.

“They are of no use to me,” Malik spoke before Altaïr could even open his mouth. “You, on the contrary, have earned them. Keep them, burn them, sell them—I don’t care. Just take them and leave.”

“I cannot—”

“ _ Goodbye _ , Altaïr.”

He knew better than to thank Malik, for he knew the gesture was meant as a punishment. To wound Altaïr’s pride and remind him of the death he caused, the death he blamed on him. 

Each assassin of Masyaf usually only had two or three sets of robes to his name. The responsibility and cost of replacing or fixing those that they damaged fell onto the individual, even as boys. It was not uncommon for father to pass his robes to son, when he first came of age and rank appropriate for them. Likewise, the robes of those killed were often given in turn to nearest of kin, to be kept as a memento, or to be buried with the deceased, or even frequently sold back to the Brotherhood, as a last gift of gold to help the family. For Malik to simply give him his brother’s robes… 

Anger tightened Altaïr’s jaw, but guilt burned in his stomach. 

He waited until he was out of Malik’s sight before he pulled the robe over his head, albeit with the grace of an old man; lifting his arms so high felt about as pleasant as digging knives back into the wounds. He could feel several stitches strain horribly at the action, loosening in some places and tightening in others. The robes stuck fast to the wounds, blood seeping through the white fabric from the opening stitches. Altaïr wondered if Malik had hidden tiny spikes in the robe too, for he could not shake the feeling that something was clawing at his skin, unable to rest so long as he wore Kadar’s abandoned robes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all I have planned for this little story, unless I get inspiration later on to continue (idk maybe with Malik's murder of the Assassin coming to light somehow in the future, and only Altaïr knowing the truth of why it happened), but right now I do not. I hope you enjoyed it all the same!


End file.
